The Dark River

“You’ve done your job adequately,” Mother Blessing said. “We don’t need anything more from you.” Holding the napkin-wrapped bottle of champagne, the steward retreated back down the aisle.

For the first time since they had left London, Mother Blessing turned her head toward Hollis and acknowledged the fact that another human being was sitting next to her. A few weeks ago, he might have smiled and tried to charm this difficult woman, but everything had changed. His anger about Vicki’s death was so powerful and unrelenting that sometimes it felt as if a malevolent spirit had taken over his body.

The Irish Harlequin removed the gold chain hanging from her neck. It held a black plastic device about the size of a stubby pencil. “Take this, Mr. Wilson. It’s a flash drive. If we’re able to get into the Tabula computer center, it’s your job to attach this to a USB outlet. You don’t even have to touch a keyboard. The drive is programmed to download automatically.”

“What’s stored on this?”

“Ever heard of a banshee? It’s a creature that wails outside a house in Ireland before someone dies. Well, this is the Banshee Virus. It destroys not only all the data on a mainframe computer, but the computer itself.”

“Where’d you get it? From some hacker?”

“The authorities like to blame computer viruses on seventeen-year-old boys, but they know quite well that the most powerful viruses come from government research teams or criminal groups. I bought this particular virus from former IRA soldiers living in London. They specialize in extortion attempts on gambling Web sites.”

Hollis placed the chain around his neck and tucked the flash drive under his shirt next to Vicki’s silver locket. “And what if this virus gets out onto the Internet?”

“That’s highly improbable. It’s designed for a self-contained system.”

“But it could happen?”

“Many unpleasant things can happen in this world. It’s not my problem.”

“Are all Harlequins as self-centered as you?”

Mother Blessing removed her glasses and gave Hollis a hard, critical look. “I’m not self-centered, Mr. Wilson. I concentrate on a few goals and discard everything else.”

“Have you always acted this way?”

“I don’t need to explain myself to you.”

“I’m just trying to understand why somebody becomes a Harlequin.”

“I suppose I could have quit and run away, but the life suits me. Harlequins have broken free of the petty annoyances of day-to-day life. We don’t worry about dry rot in the basement or this month’s credit card bill. We have no lovers to upset because we don’t come home on time, or friends who feel put out because we don’t return their calls. Aside from our swords, we have no attachment to any object. Even our names aren’t important. As I get older, I have to force myself to remember the current name on my passport.”

“And that makes you happy?”

“‘Happy’ is such an overused word it’s almost lost its meaning. Happiness exists, of course, but it’s a moment that passes. If you accept the idea that most Travelers cause positive change in this world, then a Harlequin’s life has meaning. We defend the right of humanity to grow and evolve.”

“You defend the future?”

“Yes. That’s a good way to put it.” Mother Blessing finished the champagne and placed her glass on the folding table. As she appraised Hollis, he sensed a perceptive mind working behind her harsh persona. “Does that life interest you? Harlequins usually come from certain families, but sometimes we accept outsiders.”

“I don’t give a damn about the Harlequins. I just want to make the Tabula suffer for what they did to Vicki.”

“As you wish, Mr. Wilson. But I warn you from my own experience: some hungers can never be satisfied.”

THEY REACHED THE Gare du Nord train station by ten o’clock in the morning and took a taxi to the northeast suburb of Clichy-sous-Bois. The area was dominated by public housing projects-huge gray buildings that loomed over side streets crammed with video stores and butcher shops. The blackened shells of burned-out cars were everywhere, and the only bright colors in the neighborhood came from bedsheets and baby clothes drying on clotheslines. Their French driver locked the doors of the cab as they glided past women in chadors and sullen groups of young men wearing hooded sweatshirts.

Mother Blessing ordered the driver to let them off at a bus stop, then led Hollis down a cobblestone street to an Arabic bookshop. The storeowner accepted an envelope of cash without saying a word and handed Mother Blessing a key. She went out the back door of the shop and used the key to unlock the padlock holding a steel garage door. Inside the garage was a late-model Mercedes-Benz. Every detail had been handled. There was fuel in the gas tank, water bottles in the cup holders, and a key in the ignition.

“What about the car’s registration?”

“It’s owned by a shell corporation with an address in Zurich.”

“And weapons?”

“They should be in the back.”